


Love Will Tear Us Apart

by MissHaleighFitzz



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 19:27:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2162319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissHaleighFitzz/pseuds/MissHaleighFitzz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantiare loves Enjolras. Enjolras loves Grantaire. Grantiare thinks that Enjolras hates him, and Enjolras thinks this is a game. Lots of feelings, and angst and angry smut!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Enj/R fic, so I might not having all the details super correct, also if the French translations are wrong, blame google translate, not me, I am American, but I hope they story's enjoyed none the less!

Grantaire awoke, painfully hard for the third time this week. He’d been dreaming of his Apollo again. His Apollo with his long golden curls, and tight red jacket, that contrasted so sharply and perfectly with his beautifully tan skin tone. 

The artist sighed and rolled onto his side, grabbing a cigarette off his night stand, and lighting it, leaning against his headboard and palming his cock as he though of his golden god, Enjolras. If only his Apollo could return his affections instead of running off with Combeferre every chance he got. The two were inseparable, and best friends, best friends that, Grantaire had found out last night, hooked up when they were drunk enough. I guess having a house mate as gorgeous as either of them had it’s perks. 

Ah, right. This is why Grantaire had drank so much last night, he was trying to forget the image of his Apollo dominating Combeferre’s mouth and neck when they thought no one was watching at the bar. Grantaire would never admit it, but the sight positively tore his heart in two. Rationally, he knew that Enjolras would never return his absolute adorations, but it still ruined him to finally know that it was ever going to happen. 

He was finished wallowing in self pity. Grantaire dragged himself up, and headed to the shower, knowing that he needed to get ready for the meeting this morning. It was Saturday morning, the members of the self dubbed “Les Amis” met every Saturday, to loudly complain about all the injustices of society and politics, and plan to do something about them. Enjolras was their golden god; their leader. 

His voice carried through the crowed coffee house with a cadence that inspired rage and desire for change in everyone, and anyone who happened to be just passing through. He was fiery, filled with passion, empathetic, caring, drop dead gorgeous, and if any one of them was going to change the world, it was going to be him. 

Enjolras’s awe-inspiring voice, cold blue eyes, and hot, pink mouth, is what Grantaire though of as he came all over his hand and the shower wall. Shame washing over him, he finished showering quickly, and got dressed, hurrying out the door to the meeting he was already late to.

He walked the few blocks from his shitty apartment to the coffee house, which was full of only his friends, the other members, seeing as everyone had figured out that, unless they wanted to be swept into a revolution, they should get their morning coffee elsewhere. Enjolras was in full swing when he crept through the door, trying to make as little noise as possible, and attempting to sneak to a seat in the coroner next to Eponine. 

“Grantaire!” The angelic orator barked his name. “You’re late. Again. How surprising. Why do you even bother showing up anymore? You aren’t passionate about anything we talk about, you’re always late and arguing with me, or showing up still drunk, having crawled out of god knows who’s bed, pray, tell me, what services do you really bring to the Les Amis?” 

Everyone inhaled sharply. Enjolras’ stinging words hanging in the air. Grantaire stopped, halfway to the table, where Eponine now sat alone, eyes blazing with fury over what Apollo had just said to her friend. 

Grantaire started up at him. He was wearing his trademark red leather jacket, and tight black jeans, his golden locks carefully wound into a bun behind his head, while a few loose strands hung around his face. The thing that hurt Grantaire most was not his love’s awful words, but the poorly hidden purple and red marks that littered his neck, surly having come from Combeferre. 

“Apollo, I bring the finest political flyers and protest advertisements that France has ever seen to the petty, renounced bourgeoisie, barricade worshiping Les Amis boys. You would not have nearly as many followers as you do without my beautiful art. That, oh godly one, is what I bring to this group. Plus, I’m the only that dare tell you when you’re wrong.” 

He smirked as Enjolras flushed with anger. Whether it was over the nickname Grantaire had given him, the mention of his upbringing, or the mentioning of him ever being wrong—which they all knew he never was—their orator was now filled with rage. 

“That’s all for today boys, we’ll meet again next week.” Enjolras muttered, clearly not wanting to pick a fight in front of everyone, or break his marble composure. 

Everyone nodded in agreement, sensing the tension that suddenly filled the room, they all got up, grabbing cigarettes from pockets, or coffees off tables, and headed outside, to smoke and chat and make weekend plans. 

Only Enjolras lingered, along with Combeferre, who sat still, watching the golden god with puppy dog eyes. It was enough to make Grantaire sick. He readjusted the strap of his satchel, and turned to head out the door and join everyone else. 

“ ‘Taire, a word?” Apollo asked, shuffling his papers together. 

Grantaire froze, his heart sinking in his chest. What cruel words was his leader about to lay upon him now? He walked back to where Enjolras was sitting, and stood there waiting. 

“Combeferre, you can go. I’ll see you later.” 

The room became eerily silent as Combeferre left, shooting a disheartened look at Enjolras. 

“If you’re going to tear into me again Apollo I’d rather you just save your breath. As pretty as the most atrocious words sound coming from your mouth, I’d rather not hear it.” Grantaire said, refusing to make eye contact with the other man. 

“Is that what you think this is about? You think I’m going to, ‘tear into you?’ Is this what you think of me? I embarrassed you in front of everyone earlier, purely to embarrass, to teach you a lesson, I did not mean for my words to be cutting. I’m sorry if it hurt you, my artist.” 

The last little nickname, was whispered, more to himself than to Grantaire, and it made his heart soar. 

“Do you know,” Enjolras said rising from his seat, “How infuriating it is, when you strut in here, reeking of booze, and sex, and you sit in your corner making eyes at me, and trace your lips with your tongue? I am trying to inspire a group of people here, not think about ramming my cock down your throat.” 

The last part was just a whisper. As soon as the word “cock” had come out his mouth, Grantaire was sure his skin turned a bright shade of red. Such a mouth, such a voice, shouldn’t say such words. 

“Do you know,” the orator said, now closing the space between them, his voice dropping the closer he got to Grantaire, “How absolutely distracting and intoxicating you are?” 

 

“Vous cassez mon coeur.” (You break my heart.) Grantaire whispered, Enjolras’ words cutting into him. He never though he’d hear such things from the only person he’s ever wanted to hear them from. 

“Such sad words mon chère.” (My dear). Apollo muttered, absentmindedly tangling a few fingers into the mop of Grantaire’s dark curls. 

Enjolras’ hands wandered from Grantaire’s hair, fingertips brushing along his cheeks, and down his throat, resting over his pulse. 

“My Apollo.” Grantaire whined. 

“Your Apollo?” Enjolras asked, a smirk coming over his features. 

“If I’m ‘you’re artist’ you’re my Apollo. You are my Apollo Enj, you bring the light into the darkness of my life.” 

“Mon artiste, you think too highly of me. You talk like you love me.” (My artist). 

Grantaire was about to open his mouth and let all of his pent up feelings for the orator come falling out, when the door to the room of the coffee house they were in flew open. 

“Enjolras! What the fuck are you doing? You know we have a meeting in ten minutes!” Courfeyrac yelled, causing the artist and orator to jump feet apart from each other. 

His marble composure was back instantly as he replied, “Yes, right. Let’s go then.” 

Grantaire was forgotten as he busied himself shoving papers into his messenger bag, while Courfeyrac stood in the doorway, watching the two of them closely. Enjolras finished getting his things together and grabbed his coffee. 

“ ‘Taire,” Enjolras drawled, “We’ll continue our talk about those flyers later? Maybe come by mine tonight and we can go over ideas?” 

It took Grantaire a second to realize that Enjolras was using flyers as a cover because Courfeyrac was standing right there. 

“Yeah, I mean, yes, sure, that should be perfect.” The artist stammered. He couldn’t help but notice a primal, hungry, look in his leaders eyes that had never been there before. 

 

“Revoir mon artiste.” (Goodbye, my artist.) 

“Au revoir.”


	2. Chapter 2

Enjolras was irritated. Mostly because he was already aroused and Grantaire hadn’t even stepped foot into his apartment building yet, but also at the fact that his artist was late. He’d been waiting for fifteen minutes, wine poured, music playing, and now, that his patience was wearing thin, itching for a cigarette. A habit in which he only indulged when severely stressed or upset, or his anxiety was just too high to adequately function, it was a nasty habit, one he’d picked up from his housemates, and from his artist. 

Five minutes later, just as he was reaching for a cigarette from the stash he kept on the top shelf of his closet, there was a tentative knock on the door. He grabbed the cigarettes anyway, straightened his shirt, and headed back into the main room. He tossed the pack onto the counter, where two glasses of a rich cabernet sat, waiting to be put to thirsty lips. 

He whipped open the door, startling the artist, who stood there, inky black locks dripping, and clear blue eyes starting back at him. 

“It started raining half way through my walk here.” He said, explaining why he was dripping wet. 

Enjolras couldn’t say anything. He was too busy staring at the drops of moisture that moved from Grantaire’s hair, down his cheek, and over his lips, before falling off his face and onto the floor. 

“Right. Of course. Come in.” Enjolras said, tearing his eyes away, and opening the door wider. 

The dripping artist quickly walked in, brushing against the orator ever so slightly. Even though they’d barely touched, Enjolras felt like he’d just been electrocuted. 

Shutting the door, he turned to find Grantaire standing in the kitchen, eyeing the wine and cigarettes. 

“When did you start smoking?” He asked, raising his eyebrows.

“It’s been a habit since we all moved in together. But I do it very rarely, only on certain occasions.” Enjolras answered curtly, he didn’t like being questioned, he was always the one who did all the asking. 

“And what’s the occasion?” Grantaire asked, smirking.

“Well, if you must know, I was going to have one because I was getting irritated about your tardiness, but I don’t know why I even expected you to be on time, cherie.” 

Grantaire blushed, embarrassment coursing through his body. 

“I didn’t mean to be, but the rain—”

“Don’t explain yourself to me ‘Taire, you never have, you don’t have too, I’m not your leader here, we are equals, contrary to what you believe.” 

“And what is it I believe?” Grantaire asked, taking a cigarette from the pack, and offering one to Enjolras. 

Enjolras took it, and lit Grantaire’s before lighting his own. 

“You believe,” He said exhaling and taking a drag, “That I am a god. You all think I am this mighty leader. You even call me ‘Apollo’ for christ’s sake! We’re all equals mon artiste, I am no better than you. But that’s not why you put me on a pedestal, no, that’s not the reason at all.” 

Grantaire made a choking noise as he exhaled. Enjolras looked at him quizzically, and Grantaire shook his head and took another drag, signaling he was okay. There was nothing sexier, Enjolras thought, than watching those perfect pink lips curl around the filter of a cigarette. 

“What’s my reason then, Apollo?” Grantaire asked, blowing a plume of smoke dangerously close to Enjolras’ mouth. 

They had slowly moved closer together while Enjolras talked, there were merely a few inches between them. The artist’s mouth was so close to his own, Enjolras could almost taste it…

“That’s easy, cherie, you love me.” He whispered, watching the expression on Grantaire’s face change. 

“Enj, please.” Grantaire choked. 

“Say it. Pray, tell me how you feel mon artist.” Enjolras whispered, placing one of his hands on Grantaire’s hip lightly, urging him closer. 

The artist was blushing profusely, and trying hard not to shake. The orator felt a fire burning it’s way through his body, and was fighting to not break his marble composure. 

“Christ, Enjolras, do you want me to spell it out for you? I’m not Jehan, I can’t make this sound pretty. It’s not pretty it’s pathetic. I’m just a drunkard, pining, loser artist, that adores and worships the god that walks the earth before me. That owes me nothing, that thinks I am nothing, while I think he is everything. How can I tell you that I love you when there are a million and one things that you love more than me? That you like more than me?” 

Anger started boiling close to Enjolras’ surface, he shoved the artist away from him. 

“Vous bâtard ridicule! (You ridiculous bastard!) Arrêtez de me mettre sur un piédestal! (Stop putting me on a pedestal!) Je ne suis pas un dieu! (I am not a god!) Je ne suis pas votre Apollo! (I’m not your Apollo!) Heaven’s above Grantaire! A drunk artist you may be, but stupid you are not. Can you really not see how I care about you? Me! The fucking marble statue you all tip toe around, actually has feelings, surprise surprise!” Enjolras’ composure had broken. 

“You have a funny way of showing that you care Enjolras! You berated me in front of everyone today! You purposely hurt my feelings! You tore me to shreds! You do it every chance you get! You don’t act like you care about me, you act like I’m the most disgusting thing that you’ve ever had to come in contact with!” Grantaire shouted back, tears brimming his eyes. 

“If you think I treat you so badly, and hate you so much, why are you here?! Why do you love me? What are you doing? It doesn’t make any sense! If you think I hate you so much, why are you fucking here?” Enjolras seethed, frustrated beyond all reason. 

“You know, I actually don’t know anymore. Clearly, I made a bad decision by joining in with your stupid group and coming here tonight. Golden god you may be Apollo, but you aren’t worth my time anymore, I don't deserve this.” Grantaire whispered, defeated, and going to grab his bag that he’d hung on the hook by the door. 

“Vous êtes insupportable! Sortez! (You’re unbearable! Get out!)” Enjolras screamed, but the door to his flat was already being slammed shut.


End file.
